


To Steal A Melancholy Heart

by nafnaf (lavenderet)



Category: Persona 5
Genre: (the lovers is implied), Beauty and the Beast AU, Blood and Injury, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, i took out the stockholm syndrome. we doin this right boys, the phantom thieves are furniture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-17
Updated: 2019-07-17
Packaged: 2020-06-03 19:35:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19470730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavenderet/pseuds/nafnaf
Summary: The intention was to save his father from imprisonment. Befriending a creature more demon than man, however, wasnot. And yet when that very demon saves Yusuke from an untimely demise, he starts to question the beast's motives, as well as his own blind loyalty to his father.





	To Steal A Melancholy Heart

**Author's Note:**

> here's my piece for the p5 storybook!! i had a blast working on this, and i hope you guys can enjoy it too... i wrote it in 2018, so the writing style is a bit old, but i still treasure it very deeply <3
> 
> for context on where the story begins during the beauty and the beast tale, check the 2017 movie adaptation: it's around the part where belle is chased out of the castle and then attacked by wolves. i couldn't fit the entire plot into the fic because we were given a word limit, so for more information on my interpretation of the tale, read the end notes!
> 
> i took some creative liberties with the story, but the plot strongly resembles that of the movie, so if you ever feel lost, it may be worth watching/reading the synopsis of it. don't forget to leave kudos + comments if you liked :3

Yusuke remembers how Akechi’s eyes looked in the dark—blown wide and glowing, fangs white when he snarled at Yusuke’s attackers, driving them away with barely a peep made in protest. How those eyes looked so worn afterward, his body draped over the back of Yusuke’s horse, then in his own bed, face pale with blood loss. Tending those wounds had been like forcing a wild cat into water; Akechi seemed averse to any sort of touch, innocuous or no. Yusuke has the fading scratches to prove it. 

He still wonders, vaguely, why Akechi refuses help, even being this close to demise. Why, despite having no reason to, he went out of his way to rescue Yusuke from those wolves. It’s intrigue that holds Yusuke back—intrigue that leads his footsteps back towards the west wing. He brings a sketchbook that the clock, Makoto, had supplied him with, some tea from the teapot, Ren, and a plate of pastries to keep them both occupied in the silence. Akechi is still sleeping when he arrives, the gentle rise and fall of his chest a sign that he’d slept peacefully. Peacefully, somehow. Even with those dreadful wounds. 

Yusuke drags a chair to his bedside. Akechi’s resting face is soft, without the harsh lines of his usual, fang-bearing scowl, or the permanent crease in his brows. He traces his eyes along the sharp curves of his horns, the dark purple markings of his chest and arms. Up close, the features of his mutations are less menacing; they feel more like relics, a story behind every mark, every chip in his horn. 

Yusuke couldn’t hope to fathom it, but in sketching the fervid lines of Akechi’s tattoos, he vainly hopes to be closer to understanding them. 

A moment into the scritching of Yusuke’s charcoal, Akechi’s eyes flutter open. His ruby eyes settle on Yusuke, blinking blearily, before narrowing in confusion. 

“You didn’t go home,” he rasps, and that touch of vulnerability causes an ache in Yusuke’s chest. Despite himself, he smooths his expression into something unaffected, clearing his throat to answer.

“No. I suppose not.” 

Akechi blinks again, this time some irritation seeping through the brilliant red. “Why?” 

Yusuke bites his lip. The sketch he did of Akechi stares back at him—smooth, unhurried lines, resembling a lamb more than a vicious beast. “You’re wounded,” he says by way of explanation, which suggests enough. Akechi’s flush deepens and he casts his gaze away.

“If this is an act of _pity_ ,” he spits, burrowing further into the covers, “then you are welcome to leave whenever you wish. I have no need for shallow kindness.” 

It’s said out of insecurity, Yusuke knows, but the words sink needles into his skin nevertheless. How easily he embraces solitude, how readily. Yusuke could never understand it. As a child under Madarame, the smallest of Yusuke’s failures could mean certain punishment: starvation, spankings, perhaps even worse, isolation. Experiencing it often never made it easy. Tending to wounds alone had _never_ been easy. Not the first time, nor the second time, nor the third, or the fourth— 

“I want to stay,” Yusuke tells him firmly, and for once, means it.

Akechi seems astonished. He clutches his blankets, slowly peeking out of the barrier he’d put between them, eyes cautious. “I find that hard to believe,” he murmurs, albeit sounding much less sure of himself now. 

“It isn’t really,” Yusuke admits. “There’s nothing for me back home. At that town, nothing goes out of the routine. So if you deviate, you will be singled out.” He lowers his eyes, then, down to the sketch of Akechi, every jaunty curve and shape a testament to his uniqueness. “I suppose that’s why I had no friends, now that I think on it; people were scared to associate with me…”

“And your father?”

Yusuke pauses. “My father?”

“You wouldn’t return for your father?” Akechi persists, his shoulders hunched indignantly. 

Yusuke sputters, eyes widening, before he struggles to contain his surprise behind a calm mask. “I… Well, Madarame…” He pushes a sigh through his nose. “I think… perhaps, he is better off without me.” 

Akechi stares. 

“Is that why you traded places with him in the cell?” he asks finally, quietly. 

Yusuke nods, once. The weight of the sketchbook on his knees is too much now, and he sets it aside on the bedside drawer to lessen a bit of the burden. “You see, Madarame is a respected artist. My mother had been his pupil. After her death, he adopted me and gave me art lessons in turn, but my artistic vision differed too much from his. I think it was too abstract for his liking.” He fiddles idly with the charcoal between his fingers. “It wasn’t only my style which stood out. Everything about me did. Madarame wanted me to fit the mold of society, so he did everything in his power to ensure I stayed in order.” 

Akechi curses under his breath, sensing the underlying meaning. The dread which had once spilled itself into Yusuke’s words retracts immediately, replaced with panic, the conditioned instinct to defend his father. “He was only worried, I assure you! Madarame is a good person. He took me in, after all… even though I alienated half of the town from us.” He finally looks up at Akechi. “I don’t wish to put that pressure on him, Akechi. I think, without me there, he may be happier than he was before.” 

Akechi scoffs at that, his lips curled downward with thinly-veiled contempt. “Some father that is,” he grumbles. “Caring more about his reputation than his own son.” 

His words bring a chill to the air, and with a shudder, Yusuke recalls the words of his wardrobe, Ann, the night before: Akechi knows a thing or two about self-interested fathers. He had one himself, at least before that man had died, leaving nothing but a twisted imprint of himself on his son’s psyche. 

“I spoke out of turn, didn’t I?” Yusuke mutters apologetically, and Akechi starts, snapped out of a trance. He shakes his head, eyes softer than before. An odd turn of phrase, as jagged as Akechi is, with sharp edges, hard lines comprising the skin and bone of his being.

A clawed hand reaches out, then—the tenderness of the touch as Akechi drifts his fingers over Yusuke’s forearm sending shivers throughout his body. Akechi whispers, his mouth a thin line, “You have scars…” And pulls the hand away, as if scared to venture any further. 

Yusuke slowly relaxes his fists. “From last night.” He can’t help the sad smile that surfaces then, watching incredulity and shame crawl simultaneously into Akechi’s expression. 

“… You should fear me.” 

“Is that what you want?” Yusuke asks. He receives silence in response, so he sighs and retrieves his sketchbook from the drawer. “Akechi, as much as I would love to continue this conversation with you, I should leave you to your rest. We can continue this conversation at dinner.” The invitation hangs in the air, unspoken; Akechi isn’t foolish enough to miss it. With that, Yusuke exits his chambers, his heart heavy and tongue like cotton in his mouth, wondering why he’d even bothered with this at all.

* * *

Dinner comes, inevitably, and the moving furniture help set up his and Akechi’s meals. The other man appears well-rested as he takes his seat at the head of the table, Yusuke occupying the spot at the other end. Even with significantly more clothes on and a respectfully-established distance between the two, Akechi’s powerlessness permeates, downcast eyes and nervous flush revealing all. 

The image is so jarring that Yusuke averts his gaze to his soup. It’s delectable, as always, his face brightening at the extra spice, but the heaviness of Akechi’s presence causes it to settle like rocks down his throat. Akechi’s servants have abandoned the dining room by now; the only sounds that fill the air are the occasional clinking of Akechi’s spoon and Yusuke’s slow but noisy slurps. Eventually Akechi catches Yusuke’s gaze, blushes at what he sees there.

“You, ah…” He clears his throat and motions vaguely to his mouth. Catching the hint, Yusuke wipes the mess off with a napkin. “You’re a fast eater,” he adds helplessly. Yusuke hums under his breath.

“I’ve never had such a decadent meal before. Much less with this big of a portion.” 

Akechi frowns, his spoon scraping up the remnants of his soup and pushing it around the plate. “My castle—has it been good to you?” 

“Your castle?” Yusuke echoes, and wonders briefly the reason for Akechi’s talkativeness before the thought dies away just as fast. “Yes. It has. I’ve never resided in a living castle, so I’ve no comparisons, but my experience has been pleasant thus far.” 

Akechi appears to ponder this, expression solemn. Then: “You can still turn back, you know.” 

“Hmm. I could,” Yusuke agrees. “However, I think I’d prefer to remain until your wounds are healed. If it makes you feel any better,” he cuts in, before Akechi can interrupt, “I’ll leave at your behest, if that is your wish. Otherwise, I will leave when I choose to leave, no exceptions.”

As predicted, no protest is forthcoming; Yusuke smiles in quiet victory. Akechi pushes around the contents of his soup for a little while longer before muttering, “Isn’t it lonely up here?” 

Yusuke lowers his spoon. “Lonelier down in my village,” he says, with complete honesty. _And I’m sure they wouldn’t care about my return, anyway._ “Besides, you’re here, aren’t you?”

Akechi sputters, then chokes on his soup. 

“Um,” he says. “Yes, I suppose.” His face reddens, almost like the rose held prisoner in his chambers. “I’m not sure I’m particularly pleasant company, but—” He shuts up suddenly, realizing his protests fall on deaf ears, perhaps even realizing himself that he doesn’t mean to protest, doesn’t _want_ to—“Thank you, Yusuke,” he breathes at last, and that’s the last Yusuke hears from Akechi that night. 

* * *

From that day on, Yusuke checks in on Akechi’s condition every morning, bringing a tray of breakfast that Ren and the candle, Ryuji, leave prepared in the kitchen to the west wing, where Akechi is usually awake, reading a book or speaking to Makoto about… well, Yusuke couldn’t care less about what. Makoto departs afterward, and Yusuke sketches Akechi while he eats, capturing the razor-like sheen of his fangs, the ravenous grin he doesn’t seem to be aware he’s making as he devours his meal. 

“Is that me?” he asks at one point, gesturing to Yusuke’s sketchbook. Wordlessly, Yusuke hands it over, watching as Akechi’s gaze rakes curiously over the familiar subject. 

“Do you really see me this way?” is what leaves his mouth, after a moment.

The inquiry is an odd one, and Yusuke leans over to see what he refers to, eyes snagging on a jumble of sloppy doodles: Akechi sleeping, his features relaxed, and then a couple exploring the almost playful energy he emanated as he ate breakfast. He lists his head in questioning, and Akechi elaborates, “The innocent spirit of these… they intrigue me. Any normal person would paint me as the monster I am.” 

“Is that your true nature, though?” Yusuke challenges, and Akechi opens his mouth, then closes it. 

Returning the sketchbook to Yusuke, he suddenly throws the covers off of himself and says, “Could you follow me for a second?” Then he wraps a shawl around himself and pads towards the door, leaving no room for questions or opposition. Yusuke trails his heels until they arrive in a far-off corner of the castle, smelling of dust and mold. It must have not been in use for a while.

“If you’d like,” Akechi says, as he swings the double doors open, “you could use this studio for your art. It belonged to my mother, once.”

Yusuke peeks into the cavernous room and loses his jaw. 

“This… this is for me?” he asks, slack-jawed still. The studio is spacious, decked with canvases and paint cans and clay, and more than that, it’s clean—rich in light, the air fresh like it had never been abandoned, every cloth and material in its perfect, natural shape. Like Akechi had spent every day sprucing it up. Waiting for something, someone. Perhaps even praying for it, with every refurbishment he’d ordered for its upkeep. 

“I said you could use it, didn’t I?” Akechi sniffs arrogantly, turning on his heel. “… Now, I’ll leave you to your devices. Remember to return for dinner, or I’ll seek you out myself.”

And the doors click shut, Yusuke’s heart suddenly three sizes larger. 

When Yusuke emerges next, it’s to join Akechi in the dining room, the sun near set in the horizon. He talks Akechi’s ear off about his newest painting—a composition of Akechi himself, based off of one of the breakfast sketches from that morning. “Come with me to the studio tomorrow and I’ll show you,” he offers, and Akechi agrees, and somehow, as if it had taken no effort at all, they’ve gravitated closer, Akechi no longer at the head of the table but at the seat beside Yusuke’s. He barely has the time to wonder _when_ that happened; before he knows it, they’re chatting again, this time about famous painters. 

Something in the air has shifted, inexplicably. It’s a tension they can both feel. From that evening to the next, they’re scarcely apart from each other, Akechi lounging in an area nearby whenever Yusuke’s at work, or taking walks with him around the castle. Sometimes, Akechi will model for him, though he’ll blush and sputter out objections when asked to go nude. Other times Yusuke will indulge Akechi and be subject to his readings. Mystery books have never been a particular favorite of his, but coming from Akechi’s mouth, there’s a certain intrigue that makes itself known in his words. 

And so the days pass idly by. It’s as if those early summer mornings where Yusuke remained, huddled in his castle suite, afraid and alone, hadn’t happened. It’s as if Madarame’s capture and Yusuke’s subsequent imprisonment, the perpetrator of which now spends evenings sprawled languidly on the couch next to Yusuke, hadn’t happened. Yusuke is at odds with his conscience. Perhaps Madarame is worrying for him, back at the village. Perhaps people are conducting search parties in his name.

Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.

Of course, he knows the truth. Akechi is lonely, and so is he. The castle has everything he couldn’t have for himself, once: privacy, full meals, a warm bed, _companions._ Even if Madarame misses him— 

Even if his _father_ needs him— 

Yusuke’s head swims suddenly, and Akechi catches his arm before he can teeter over. “Are you all right?” he asks, lips upturned as he watches Yusuke reorient himself. They’re in the ballroom—or, what _used_ to be the ballroom, every instrument and ornament covered with drapes of cloth (with the exception of the piano, Haru, who plays an idle melody as they walk past). Yusuke runs a hand over his face and smiles at Akechi, aiming for reassurance.

“I’m fine. Just a little sleepy. In any case… this ballroom is rather sad, is it not?”

Akechi glances around, heaves a sigh through his nose. “Yes, in a way. It used to house great festivities, all of which I’d partaken in, childhood to adulthood. They were never much to my fancy.” He turns to Yusuke, then—his cheeks a soft pink, smile just this side of shy. “Right now, though… I quite like the idea of it. Dancing. Would you like to?”

Yusuke feels his own face heat up at the thought. “M-Me? I’m afraid I don’t know how to…”

Akechi’s face falls. “Oh.”

“Why don’t you teach him?” pipes up Futaba from her perch on the windowsill, and Ren shushes her. But Futaba is persistent, leaping up and down with a kind of vigor Yusuke never knew a teacup could have. “I wanna see Goro dance! Please, Haru, play them a melody!”

“How could I say no to such a request?” Haru giggles, complying with a slow, somewhat simple song that sends warmth and anticipation flying simultaneously into Yusuke’s bones. He looks at Akechi, whose arms are wrapped around himself self-consciously. Is he shy? 

“What are you waiting for?” Ryuji hollers, and Akechi grumbles under his breath. His arm comes around Yusuke, the other finding his hand and twining their fingers together. Akechi’s claws are cold, but not unpleasantly so; Yusuke finds himself smiling as he’s brought closer, their toes nearly touching. 

“What’s the matter? I thought you were the one who wanted to dance,” Yusuke teases, his smile coy.

Akechi’s flush grows even deeper. ‘I didn’t mean _now_. Not when we have… an audience.” Still, he guides Yusuke’s movements as they begin, making quiet pointers about where his feet should be and what direction they should move. The steps, at least, aren’t terribly complicated—but Yusuke still falters with the unfamiliarity of it, long legs stumbling and nearly knocking into Akechi’s at every turn.

“Loosen up,” Akechi chides, setting a bit of distance between them to lessen the chances of getting his toes stepped on. Yusuke struggles to keep up, clumsy for a moment until he starts to follow with a grace that outweighs his stiltedness, carrying their pace well. Akechi’s confidence buds with Yusuke’s; his smile reaches his eyes, and he twirls them around the ballroom until the dance is just nonsense spins and steps that betray his normal sophistication, bringing a childish delight in its place. 

Yusuke laughs, and—and he’s never experienced anything like this, has never known how it felt to smile until his cheeks hurt, to learn the true meaning of affection, _mutual understanding_ —has never, ever, _ever,_ anticipated tomorrow, not before Akechi. He’s so full and euphoric and that’s what makes it so scary, so unfamiliar. But it’s a kind he wants to explore further—to unravel until it’s muscle memory, not just some distant hope at the back of his mind, a dream held hostage in the palm of Madarame’s hand.

He dips Akechi nearly to the floor and the man erupts in astonished laughter, pulling himself up before his servants can tease him for it. “You are _unbelievable_ ,” he huffs out. 

“My apologies. I couldn’t resist.” Yusuke beams, releasing him. He watches the smile on Akechi’s face soften, somewhat, and thinks about using sunshine in his next painting. 

“As much as I don’t want to cut this short,” Akechi begins, ghosting his hand over Yusuke’s shoulder, “I believe Makoto is expecting us at the balcony. Could you accompany me?”

“The balcony?” Despite his perplexion, he accepts the hand that is offered to him and follows Akechi there, spotting Makoto alongside an array of candles (neither of which are Ryuji, perhaps a consideration of their privacy). In the center of it lies a bench layered with a soft blanket—atop the bench, some tea and a three-tiered serving tray lined with cakes. Yusuke gapes, and Makoto bows courteously.

“I’ve done as you requested, Goro,” she says, her expression one of a proud mother.

“Thank you, Makoto. You may go now.” He sees her out just as Yusuke takes a seat on the bench, marvelling at the scenery before them. The balcony overlooks the frozen lake, the hedge maze, the rose garden—the very roses Madarame had stolen, resulting in his kidnapping, and Yusuke’s eventual captivity. 

_Captivity._ How odd of a word. It _had_ been true, at one point—a point where Yusuke was confused, angry, in the dark and without closure, and Akechi had been very much the same. But since then, a whole world has blossomed in its wake—has touched them with its petals, tangled them in its roots. Yusuke finds it hard to reconcile with, sometimes… and yet, this is a truth he doesn’t want to part with.

“I haven’t thanked you,” Akechi says, as he returns to Yusuke’s side, “for nursing me back to health.”

Yusuke turns to him with half a coffee cake in his mouth. He must look ridiculous, but Akechi isn’t mocking, his lips a gentle, affectionate curve up his cheeks. “I haven’t apologized, either,” Akechi continues, “for what I did to you and your father.” 

Yusuke’s blood chills, his hands relinquishing the treat in favor of placing them on his lap. He says, “Thank you, but there’s no need. I know now you were only frustrated with your circumstances.” And his gaze flickers to the candlelight, their flames a hypnotic sway in the stale winter breeze. Akechi’s watching him, and Yusuke is attuned to its weight, enough that he can tell his eyes holds a tinge of uncertainty. Akechi’s hand inches closer, stopping only a hair’s breadth away from Yusuke’s. Neither of them move to close the distance. 

“I don’t understand…” Akechi murmurs, in the silence.

Yusuke lifts his gaze to the other, expression inquisitive. Akechi sighs a bit through his nose, his eyes downcast, until he turns to Yusuke again. “That you could want to stay with someone like me.”

“Someone like you?” Yusuke repeats.

“I’ve told you, haven’t I? A monster.” His smile twists into something wry, something damaged. “A man so terrible he was cursed to be alone for the rest of his life. A curse which dragged his friends, his caretakers in with him to bear the burden of that same demise.”

Yusuke pauses, his eyes raking the length of Akechi’s body until they settle on his face, the tears just barely glossing the surface. “But you’ve changed,” Yusuke says. “And you’re not alone anymore.”

Akechi’s breath stutters, and carefully, Yusuke lets his hand drift. He finds the back of Akechi’s hand, tentative; Akechi’s claws twitch, and then, with equal hesitation, they curve back, allowing Yusuke’s fingers to intertwine with his. 

Yusuke has never touched someone with the intention of comforting them before. Likewise, Akechi seems unfamiliar with the notion of receiving it, his shoulders tense and eyes shifty, as if contemplating escape. Still, a certain kind of warmth pervades, dispelling the cold of the outdoors. He feels more than sees Akechi relax, their hands still comfortably linked. Yusuke’s chest stirs with contentment. The words escape before he can pore over them: “There’s still a chance for you, Akechi.”

Akechi’s head snaps up in surprise. “What… ?”

“The rose,” Yusuke says. “I could help you save it.” Not that he has a clue of how he can do it, or why the curse hasn’t even broken yet, but they have time on their side.

Akechi stares, his mouth forming over soundless words and phrases until he manages, “Could you truly be happy here? With me?”

Yusuke squeezes his hand. “I… I don’t know.” He wets his lips. “I have long lived in isolation, deprived of a proper connection to others. Just like you had, I bent to my father’s will in fear of his abandonment. But now that I have you and the others…” He clasps his other hand over Akechi’s, cradling it to his chest. “I must tell him I’m free. I must make my own decisions from this point on, without influence.”

“And your decision… is to be with me?”

“It is. With all of my heart.” And he hopes Akechi can feel it, too, the heartbeat thrumming through his chest an indication of his sincerity.

Akechi pulls his hand back, his bottom lip trapped beneath his teeth. For a brief, harrowing second, Yusuke fears he will once more be pushed away, but in the next moment Akechi is enveloping him in a hug. Tight, all-encompassing, breeding warmth and life and promise between them. 

“I don’t deserve a friend like you,” he breathes, and Yusuke’s body shakes, overwhelmed. 

“You do.” He wraps his arms around him, shares the trembling that rocks Akechi’s frame and vibrates through his bones. “You do, Akechi, you do.”

 _I do too,_ he was almost telling himself. _I do. I do._

All his life, villagers left and right calling him an outsider, a freak, a nobody, his own _father_ telling him he’d never find love outside of him, that he’d be alone _always_ if it weren’t for him, had worn him down into feather and dust. Meeting Akechi was an alien experience. Empathizing with him, even more so. Akechi makes him bubble over, burst with fondness and curiosity and love, and for someone to accept him for _him_ —not for being Madarame’s prodigal son—how could he ever want to leave?

How could he ever deny the prospect of having a true family?

“Yusuke,” Akechi says after a moment, pulling away slightly to properly address him. “Be careful. That man, your father, is not what he seems to be. I wouldn’t trust a word he says if I were you.”

Yusuke hums, rubbing a tender hand over Akechi’s cheekbone. “I know that now, thanks to you. Do not fret. I’ll return to the castle, I promise. And when I do… I’ll save you, Akechi.”

Akechi sighs, leaning into his touch minutely. “Goro,” he whispers, his eyes fluttering shut as he places a hand over Yusuke’s. “Please, call me Goro.”

The plea settles between them, like a vow. Yusuke accepts it, nuzzling it close, thankful, almost desperate, knowing unease will eventually take its place and fester into dread. He knows, logically, it won’t end with simply seeing Madarame. He’ll have to expose him before he ruins the village further, take him down for good, maybe even remain for days before he deems it safe enough to depart again. He must make up for years of complicity, years of being nothing, no one.

And there is no way, no way he can let Goro know. Not until after he’s completed his duty.

“Will you be swift?” Goro asks, and Yusuke sighs, his gaze softening.

“It will be as if I’ve never left.” And he seals it with a soft, chaste kiss against his forehead, lingering. 

* * *

The castle had once been a timeless beauty. Stuck in a perpetual winter, the only evidence of time a rose in a glass that, when enough days had passed, would lose a petal to signify the advancement of a curse. But the seconds bleed by carelessly now, and the leaves shift in color, some sky visible beneath lily-white clouds. Yusuke breathes in the wisps of spring, sneezing when pollen goes up his nose without warning.

“Oh! Sorry about that,” Haru says suddenly, patting Yusuke’s arm. “I forgot that spring here is particularly deadly to those with allergies. Perhaps I should have asked you to help Ren with the kitchen.”

Yusuke shakes his head, smiling, and sweeps his gaze over their current undertaking. Though most of the garden had been spared by the mob’s angry, stampeding feet, the section by the entrance had bore the brunt of it. He despises seeing it, despises remembering what had occurred as a result of his foolishness and Madarame’s cruelty. He prefers it blanketed by flowers and fruit, perhaps accompanied by a certain prince. Maybe an easel and one of Yusuke’s canvases, too. Definitely some paints, in that case.

From afar, Futaba’s laughter trickles into a passing breeze. Ann chases her with a black cat in tow while Makoto watches, bemused, Ryuji busy plucking out weeds from another ruined plot. Behind them— 

Yusuke meets Goro’s gaze, and the noise drowns out into nothing.

Slowly, a fangless smile touches the corners of Goro’s lips. He ruffles his hair in embarrassment, and his hand catches on no horns, claws absent from his fingers. Yusuke stares, awestruck, forgetting how to breathe, until he smiles back, standing, making his way to a beckoning hand, a mischievous mouth that says, “Need a break?”, and a warm, human palm as Yusuke takes his hand and follows him out of the sunlight.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!! more info on this fic:  
> \- like in the movie, yusuke switches places with his adoptive father, madarame, in the castle cell after the latter is captured by the beast for trespassing. ren and company eventually convince yusuke to leave the cell and help them with breaking the curse that they're under, starting with befriending the beast, goro.  
> \- it plays out fairly similarly to the movie in that yusuke finds the rose and goro catches him, screaming at him to leave, which then leads to the wolf ambush and consequently the majority of this fic. however, there was going to be a part where goro uses a magic mirror to show yusuke the truth about madarame: he let yusuke's mother die in order to take yusuke in himself. this doesn't actually happen, as in the fic goro simply tells yusuke to be careful towards madarame before yusuke leaves the castle, and yusuke doesn't learn the truth until later.  
> \- when yusuke confronts madarame about leaving town to live in the castle, madarame was going to use this as an excuse to storm the castle and kill the beast, much like gaston does in the movie. it's around this part where yusuke would learn of madarame's wrongdoings, if i had actually wrote this part.  
> \- the last section of the fic details the aftermath of the storming of the castle, which goro and yusuke obviously thwart, and is also proof that yusuke manages to break the curse. and, yeah, madarame probably dies or something.


End file.
